Blueberry pancakes on a Saturday morning
by Pinkjimmychoos
Summary: Bill/Karen. More food fluff.


**Blueberry Pancakes**** on a Saturday morning**

**Summary:** Karen returns a culinary favour. Another fluffy "food in bed" story- I must be on a roll or something with all these one-shots I'm churning out lately. Hope you like it-reviews are appreciated and thanks to those who did so last time!

**Rating:** K

**Disclaimer:** Not mine (though the _recipe_ is and is easy to make and tastes yummy)- Karen Hayes and Bill Buchanan do infact belong to FOX and the makers of 24. Gah.

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"Cinnamon... cinnamon... darn it! Where the _hell_ is that cinnamon?" Karen Hayes rummaged through the kitchen cupboards on a desperate search for the missing glass spice jar, an expression of discontent on her face.

Early morning April sunlight streamed through the open kitchen windows, warming the terracotta tiles beneath her bare feet as she continued her valiant search for the final elusive ingredient that would complete her envisioned culinary masterpiece. Or _not_, as the case may be, as she finally closed the cupboards with an un-amused frown.

"Darn it! Bill must have used it all up. Oooh!" she pouted and huffed a strand of blond hair off her forehead as she exhaled in frustration. Grabbing a wipe marker, she pointedly scrawled on the little white board that was pinned to the refrigerator, underlining it three times for emphasis: _We're out of cinnamon!_

Ok. New plan. _Scrap_ the cinnamon French toast today (unfortunately her husband's favourite breakfast) and go for her ever-faithful contingency plan instead. Her eyes rested on the various ingredients already assembled on the tidy counters as she began a new hunt in the cupboards, gathering flour, baking powder and sugar. Finally she hauled a carton of fresh blueberries from the pantry store cupboard, unable to resist tasting _just one_, its tangy juice bursting sweetly on her tongue as she switched on the griddle pan and greased it in preparation.

Blueberry pancakes. Her mom's patented recipe and the one recipe from the Hayes family repertoire that Bill (culinary genius that he was) _couldn't_ top. With a little smile she separated a couple of egg whites, beating them into a glass dish and setting them aside to rest for later. Tipping two teaspoons of baking powder (her mom had always used one; she found that _two_ generated fluffier pancakes) into a separate bowl with a cup of flour and adding a tiny pinch of salt, she slid some butter into the microwave to melt. Her mouth was watering already, as she poured a tumbler of icy cold milk into the bowl with the flour, anticipating Bill's pleasured face when he saw his breakfast.

Her mom had always told her that the way to a man's heart was through his stomach, and in Bill's case she definitely didn't doubt it. He _was_ the better chef, granted, but time and again she occasionally liked to surprise _him_ with a meal.

Like today- a Saturday, the start of a weekend when unfortunately she_ would_ have to head out to work later and Bill would no doubt head to the Smithsonian Institute or engage in a round of golf with friends- but thankfully they _could_ spend the morning together. She loved their weekends and both of them really liked to make them count. After five years, their marriage was stronger than ever.

Swiping another tart blueberry, she mixed all the ensembled ingredients together at last, folding in half the fruit from its box and finally the beaten egg whites, which turned the mixture shiny as they combined with the butter. _Perfect consistency,_ she thought as she experimentally allowed some to drip from her wooden spoon- sometimes she had to add more flour, but not today. Glossy and slightly runny. No lumps.

The griddle pan sizzled expectantly as she dropped on the first spoon of batter, then another couple of generous blobs, and the delicious familiar smell flooded the airy kitchen.

A plaintive yowl drew her attention then, as her obese, ginger tomcat Pepper appeared from his wicker basket and rubbed his head around her ankles, green eyes looking up at her imploringly.

"_Uh uh_, no pancakes for you," she told him fondly, knowing his preference for sweet treats; "these are for Bill." Was it her imagination or did he _hiss_ a little then at the sound of her husband's name? Shaking her head at her wild thoughts, she poured some kitty kibbles into his blue bowl then washed her hands and watched as Pepper tucked in like he hadn't been fed for a month.

"That damn cat needs to go on a diet," came the amused gruffly voice from the open doorway. Bill, clad in only a towling robe that matched hers. Just the way she liked him.

"You're up, honey," she sounded almost disappointed as he wrapped his arms around her from behind; he looked all sleep-ruffled and dishevelled as he examined the contents of the pan, his eyes bright with anticipation. He then inched away slightly from Pepper who lifted his head from his food dish and eyed the bare ankles before him, flexing his claws experimentally. A veiled feline threat.

"Indeed I am," his voice was low as he snuck a remaining blueberry, biting into it appreciatively and shooting the cat a dark look before turning his undivided attentions back to his wife, "I see _you're_ cooking today and its smelling mighty delicious. What time did you get up to do all this?" he kissed her neck affectionately.

"A little while ago," she responded with a bright smile, "I wanted to surprise you before I head to work."

"_Oh_," Bill grinned and covered his eyes with one hand as he caught on, "well. In that case, I never saw a thing, alright?" with a sneaky smile, he turned and tiptoed back to bed, fumbling blindly against the walls as Karen laughed at his fooling around and Pepper shot him a baleful expression. If cats could sniff in disgust, then he probably _would_ have, Karen thought with a rueful grin, turning her attention back to the golden pancakes on the stove.

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Bill was lying in bed, thumbing through a computer magazine, and looked up when Karen shouldered open the bedroom door ten minutes later. She carried in the tray, on which was balanced the stack of pancakes, a coffee percolator emitting the alluringly bitter aroma of espresso, a little jar of icing sugar and two teeny coffee mugs.

"Why honey," Bill feigned surprise, eliciting another laugh from her; "this looks amazing, thank you."

He took the tray as she slid into bed beside him and shed her robe. "You're welcome."

He dug in appreciatively, proffering the fork to Karen. "No one makes pancakes quite like you do, sweetheart," he commented, licking the powdered icing sugar from around his lips.

"Well, I _was_ going to make you French toast," she said pointedly as she took another little bite, "only _someone_ used up all the cinnamon."

"Oh," his voice sounded innocent, but she caught the look of amusement flashing in his eyes. "Really?"

"Yes. _Really_," she countered, "but looking at you now, the way you're eating those things up, I'm thinking it was a deliberate ploy on your part."

He grinned; "honey… where _do_ you come up with these wild accusations?"

She folded her arms looking huffy; "admit you hid the cinnamon so I'd wind up making you pancakes instead, Mr Buchanan- otherwise I'll be forced to resort to more _extreme_ measures to make you talk."

"Oh yeah?" he sounded interested now as he finished up his third pancake and leaned back against the pillows with a full stomach.

"Yeah."

He was quite happy with that idea as he folded his hands behind his head, smugly, playing submissive. "You'll _never_ get an admission out of me, Ms Hayes. I'm curious to know your tactics for interrogation. Are they sexual, perchance?"

She slid the tray onto the floor and cast him a sneaky smile. "Let's just say it involves the use of extreme torture," her hands quickly crept down to his sides as she tickled him playfully, as he creased up in painful laughter.

"Ok! Ok! _I give_," he protested, swatting her hands away playfully. She knew all his weak spots. "You have no mercy woman. I'm getting old, remember?"

"Say it."

He regarded her solemnly and held up his right hand, "I Bill Buchanan, admit that I deliberately used up all the cinnamon so that you'd make me pancakes for breakfast instead. You're very predictable, sweetheart."

"Or maybe I'm _not_," she said triumphantly as she pinned him down on the sheets and kissed him soundly, "and it looks like this is where you're going to find out."

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**A/N: **No, I don't know why either of them don't weight 300 pounds either, given all the food they seem to eat. Call it creative licence. ;D


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